3
by Okamura
Summary: She'd counted them all, just because she knew they wouldn't last.


Mao rolled over, gathering the white sheets closer to her bare chest. She frowned. She frowned all the time, now. She was so angry with herself. She'd never be satisfied.

The bulky man lying next to her burped loudly and shifted beneath the covers, a single meaty, hairy thigh brushing Mao's own. She cringed away from him in disgust. It seemed the longer she stayed with him, the fatter and sweatier he became.

He was also her husband. Undoubtedly only for _"sexin' 'im up_". Pig. He knew she would rather be doing anything else but this.

But desperate times call for desperate measures.

She'd known, when she was still very young, that she wouldn't get a fantastic job for skipping her High School education after travelling with Okamura. Yet she never suspected she would sink as low as this.

Laying in bed with a drunk, a man she barely knew, who had married her to keep him company in the bed night after night and clean up his messes. It was hard to pretend it might be someone handsome when she closed her eyes, with all that man's body fat and his terrible smell. He was nothing short of disgusting.

She flipped the covers off her naked body and swung her legs over the edge, feeling the slightly chilly, cheap carpet beneath her feet. She quickly found her way to the bathroom in the dark, cramped apartment, lit by the streetlights outside. Blindly she found the light switch and the yellow light of the tiny bathroom came to life, a single fly buzzing toward it and began to bump stupidly against the ceiling.

She stepped inside and closed the door, the tiles cold and hard against her feet. She needed to look at herself.

She needed to get a grip.

She stood next to the reflective surface and skepticized her refection, frowning. The mirror showed only half of her face, and it appeared absolutely flawess. A single beautiful, wide eye stared back at her with the same fiery determination it had 15 years ago in her naiive teenage years. A sloping nose, full lips, smoothe skin and a defined cheekbone. She was a beautiful woman who had aged well.

She moved directly in front of the mirror, and held back the desire to smash it into pieces on the spot. The other half of her face was now visible. Pockmarked, spotted skin, a milky pale eye, and a receded hairline. Darker, redder, inflamed. Deformed.  
_Ugly. Ugly._

"Ugly." She slapped herself, shamed at her own stupidity. She blamed herself for losing half her beauty- and along with it, any real chance of hope.

Playing with guns is never a good idea, even when you're trying to go after someone. To help them, to save them from their own stupid ideas. From stupid Vietnam, even, where they're on a suicide mission. There were no more shotguns after that day with her accident. Nor was there any money, thanks to hospital treatment bills. Stupid Okamura and his stupid ideas.

He'd never know, nor appreciate, her sacrifice for him- that stupid, headstrong photographer who never looked back. If she hadn't ruined her face in that gunfire accident... She wouldn't be here right now. That despicable pig snoring just outside the bathroom was the only one who would take her. 'Look after her'. _Someday, I'll get out of this shithole. Just not today_, she told herself repeatedly.

She opened the door of the bathroom, refusing to look herself in the eyes again. She remembered where she was, what her place was, by looking at her reflection. And that was how she got a grip. It was anger at herself that motivated her, her pure hatred of herself. Without her anger, there would be nothing left. And she knew it, that she'd just fade and waste away if she ever let it go.

Hatered of herself, and Okamura the photographer, propelled her.

She switched the lights off once more, shuffling out of the cold, tiny bathroom and across the room to the bed. She sighed frustratedly as she let herself hit the the sheets and pulled what was left of the thin wool blanket over her slim body. She hadn't gained much weight yet. She was only 31. But soon... She shuddered. Vanity was another twisted part of the hatred she clung to.

The man rolled around more still, grunting and kicking. He did that whenever he had sex, for some reason. His left leg would start jigging out, and he's have to stop for a moment. How Mao hated him, his mannerisms, his habits, his poor grammar in the way he talked. He was a reminder of her situation, of her new station and class. A lowly, ugly, _disgusting whore_. She turned her gaze to the window.

She'd seen this view many times before. Staring out a window from a pillow, listening to cars pass and watching streetlights flicker. And not a single one was _good._ She'd only ever had a few good nights, and they were spent staring in the opposite direction, at a _man _(and an attractive one at that, not the greasy bastard behind her)_, _not an inanimate object. The window served as only a distraction when she chose to look at it.

She could barely remember her first time. She was far past the stage of virginity now, starting back when her father refused her more money after she ran away. He'd shut her out of her own home and she was forced to... 'Support herself'.

Cold-hearted bastard.

She thought back to that blurry first adventure, spent overnight in your typical trashy motel. Kai never had much money. He was never enthusiastic, either, especially when it came to intimacy. That kind of... killed the expirience.

But their relationship had been dead long before she began to drag it out. She hadn't seen him in years since, and wouldn't hesitate to pass him by in the streets if she saw him. Then again, she didn't expect Kai to be walking the same streets she did, now. The slums were never meant for Kai.

Mao was never really meant for him, either.

But there were three good times. She'd counted them, because she'd known they wouldn't last. She was never that naiive, even at 16. Those memories never blurred, never faded, but they milled around inside her warped mind and teased her. The first of them was spent in another motel, in the dingy streets of the City. What was it with the motels?

She remembered the rubbing of skin on skin, the rough scratch of his whiskers on her chin and neck, how it felt to brush her lips against his cheeks. The first time she remotely enjoyed the scent of cigarettes...

The expirience had been anything but gentle. But gentle didn't fit, when it came to Mao. Not many things did. But he had, most importantly.

The second time. Another motel room. At that point, there was nothing but the two of them and 'the trail'. But that night, they forgot about the trail, about the cigarettes, the photos and the money. A weird sort of happiness, despite their constant bickering, overcame the two that night.

Mao shut her eyes and, for one moment, wished she could go back.

She thought of the last time. She wished it had been somewhere else other than the backseat of a car on a rainy night, in a remote part of a parking lot. She hated that sort of trashy image. But hey, money was scarce and the nights where you couldn't get a motel, you had to make do with what you had. And that was what they did. And with the close proximity and all...  
She didn't really remember making a concious decision to fuck a guy in the back of a car. It just sort of... 'happened'.

And every night she'd stared at his face. Just memorizing the way his nose prowed, the subtle traces of wrinkles between his eyebrows, his stubbled chin, the defined cheekbones he had. She could close her eyes and picture it.

She'd never forget his God damned face.

Mao rolled over and tried to get some sleep.


End file.
